When Alfred woke up, the first he saw was Arthur.
Well, more like Arthur's back, creamy and shiny under the sunlight that filtered through the window blinds. His shoulders rose and fell with his breathing. The duvet was pulled over his lower half and exposed his arms and chest. He was next to Alfred, asleep.
Alfred had always dreamt of waking up next to him, being close to him. They'd cuddle in bed, share feathery kisses, tell anecdotes over the table. It would be domestic, the white picket-fence fantasy all Americans strived for. It would be perfect.
They're together. So why did Alfred feel so empty?
He knew why.
He lingered for a moment, content to watch Arthur sleep. Later, he scrambled to his feet. Breakfast wasn't going to make itself, and thankfully, there weren't any world meetings they had to attend anytime soon.
Alfred's shuffling must've been louder than he intended. As he pulled a shirt over his head, the bed rustled.
"Morning," came Arthur's voice.
Alfred turned around and his heart jumped - his eyes met the green orbs - before it sunk. He dropped his gaze but smiled. "Morning."
The other man didn't notice. He yawned and settled back into his pillow, turned towards Alfred. "How are you feeling?"
Disappointed. Hopeless. Hurt. "Fine. You?"
"Likewise."
The air crackled.
Alfred put on the last of his clothes and cleared his throat. "I'll go make breakfast."
"Alfred, wait," Arthur called as his fingers brushed the knob of the door. He dreaded those words, dreaded what would come after them.
Yet Alfred only smiled as he turned, hoping it seemed genuine. "Yes?"
He expected several responses. I made a mistake. I'm sorry, I don't actually feel that way about you. I don't think we're meant to be. This can't continue. Let's not do this. I don't want this. I don't want you.
"Make tea," Arthur said.
He nodded and stepped out.
"This wanker had the gall to mess with people's beer like that! No right man should even commit such a crime."
Alfred allowed Arthur's rants to enter one ear and out the other. He absentmindedly stabbed his eggs and shoved the food into his mouth.
He didn't notice when his lover — supposedly — dropped silent. Alfred continued to chew, gazing at the wall blankly.
"Alfred," Arthur said, deliberately louder to catch his attention. "You don't seem well."
He shook his head and laughed at him. It sounded hollow to his ears. "Dude, I'm totally fine. Weren't you telling me something just now?"
The British rolled his eyes. "Alfred."
"You were talking to me about the Queen, right?"
"Three topics ago. Alfred."
"I paid attention, I swear!"
"Alfred!"
This time, he dropped his smile and frowned. Arthur reached for his arm and squeezed it. Alfred didn't turn to meet his eyes, hoping beyond hope that it didn't appear like he wanted to cry. He didn't want to cry. Nothing would come out.
"Love, speak to me," Arthur pleaded. "You're acting strange. Distant. Was it something I did? Something I said?"
Something you didn't do. Something you did say. Alfred pulled his arm away. He dropped it on to his lap. Arthur withdrew his own, still staring at him.
"It's nothing, really," Alfred said. He shook his head. "It's not your fault. It doesn't matter."
"Like bloody hell it doesn't. Anything that bothers you bothers me."
He wanted to believe that Arthur cared about him that much. Perhaps he did. Just not the way Alfred would like and did.
He stood up and his seat scraped against the floor. His companion winced at the noise. Alfred took his plate to the sink.
Arthur glared. "Don't ignore me, you git!" his tone turned softer. "Please. I want to know what's on your mind."
"I think I need to end this."
Alfred's words escaped his mouth, his mutinous mouth. He hated it. He hated his words. Himself. Regret bloomed in his chest at the clatter of silverware.
"I… was that what you were thinking about?"
Silence. No protest.
They continued their daily routine. Arthur dressed into his usual attire and packed his items. He stood by the entrance as he put on his shoes.
Alfred's arms felt awkward at his sides. "I'll see you."
At the sight of Arthur's glossy eyes, his heart folded.
"Why?" Arthur asked, barely spoken.
Alfred laughed. It tasted bitter on his tongue. He knew what he was talking about; he didn't have to say it aloud. "Because you don't actually love me back, do you?"
The other man looked as if he'd been slapped squarely on the cheek by surprise. "Of course I do."
"But not in that way."
Arthur's face faltered. His eyes widened, a deer caught in the headlights. "Alfred, I just… don't want to lose you."
That was an admission; Arthur didn't really love him, after all. Alfred had foolishly hoped that, despite the odds, he really did. He'd spent enough times watching movies to know that the root of problems were miscommunication, omission. That the two protagonists were simply oblivious and unknowing of each other's feelings. The heroine would admit her undying love to the hero - Alfred - and then they would get their happy ending.
Hollywood crap.
"You could've just said no and let me heal, Artie. You didn't even grant me that privilege! Why?" Alfred stepped closer until their faces were mere inches away from one another.
Arthur shaked. His throat formed a lump as he gulped. "I…"
He took in the expression on Arthur's face. His eyes threatened to well up, his chin jumped. His eyebrows, instead of knit together, parted.
A beat.
"You can go."
"Alfred, hear me out-"
"Go."
The air stuttered. The front door shut after.
Several days passed. Weeks. Months. Despite everything, the world continued to spin on its axis.
England and America continued on as if nothing happened. They still fought, still argued. The only difference was that they never hung out outside of meetings, never spoke about anything else but business. Ever.
The other nations noticed this, too. Some have approached America about it, but he only brushed it off with his brightest laugh and assured them that everything was fine. Everyone acknowledged this as a lie.
America was reduced to staring at England from across the room, admiring from afar than by his side as he used to do. Sometimes, America felt his stare on his back. Sometimes he sensed that England knew that he was being stared at by one former colony. Other times, they met eyes, which was the worse of the three scenarios. They'd both turn away and America would flee promptly.
America stopped doing that one day.
One night, as he dimmed his lights and readied for bed, someone knocked on his door. He didn't know who or what to expect.
The last of his expectations were England on his front step. Drunk at that, too. This time, it was just that.
America rifled through several answers once more.
"Hey," he said lamely.
His former caretaker gurgled at him and staggered inside his home. His cheeks were flushed from all the alcohol and he wobbled. Moreover, he looked roughened up as if he had gotten back from a fight or two.
England pointed at him and hiccuped. "Don't heeey me!" his head shook back and forth like a bobblehead. "You knooow what you diiid."
He blinked. "I… don't?"
Right then and there, England broke down and sobbed.
America freaked. "Woah woah, hey dude, get yourself together!"
He dragged the unwilling body inside his home and tossed it to the couch. England's shoulders shook at his sobbing as he continued to babble nonsense at him.
"You wanker… arse… git…" he hiccuped again. "Hate you. I hate you."
America sighed at that. Nothing he didn't already know after he kicked England out of his house.
"Hate… hate…" the drunkard continued. "I hate how you ignore me."
At that, he blinked. "Why?"
England sniffled. "Love you." he shifted on the couch. "Thought I diddun, but you were bloody there and perfect, and I love you. Love you so much that I think I'll die!"
He paused. America stood up and fetched him a blanket. He placed it over the man still babbling words he didn't believe, or so he thought.
"Do love you," he repeated. "Love, you. Love you."
"You're drunk."
England made a motion to hit him, but only managed to paw at him. When America turned to look at England's face, his cheeks were caked with tears and his chin trembled. "Yer not allowed to ignore me ever again! Being away from you… being away from you is the worst."
England dragged him down to the couch and enveloped him in a hug. America found his arms bound together inside the embrace. His face buried itself into the crook of England's neck. England reeked of alcohol.
After a moment to process, America only sighed and kissed the tears that trailed down England's face. "Go to sleep," he said. "Just remember this in the morning, 'kay?"
The island nation only whimpered and whispered repeatedly into his ears, words that didn't sound dishonest and hollow as the time America first heard it.
He eventually found enough wiggle room to return the embrace. They fell asleep in each other's arms.